


With Bated Breath

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prostitution, Sexual Inexperience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butch and the Lone Wanderer fail to connect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Bated Breath

They'd been sharing a bed for weeks in the name of practicality. It's a hell of a lot easier to find someplace to sleep when you're not picky about who you're sleeping next to.

Gene was short, 5'3'' in thick-soled boots. He wore thick-framed glasses and was practically blind without them. He looked like a nerd, and he always fucking would, even if he had put on a lot of muscle since he left the Vault. Tubby little fuck had turned into a stocky powerhouse, an avenging angel with a ballistic fist and severe astigmatism.

He wasn't wearing the glasses now, though. No point in it, it was dark enough in Gene's Megaton house that you might as well be blind. They were lying awake together, sharing a mattress, kind-of-but-not-really holding hands underneath the blankets. Gene's arm was resting more or less on top of Butch's. Their fingers were touching, but not interlaced.

Butch had no idea how he transitioned from "next to Gene, not holding his hand" to "on top of Gene, not kissing him," but he was drunk when he crawled into bed that night, and Gene was warm and wonderfully solid and they'd both been wanting this for weeks, anyway.

"You've done this before, right?" Butch asked, straddling Gene's hips. His head was pounding and it seemed like the right thing should be obvious, but he was confused. He'd felt very brave when he climbed on top of Gene, but now that he was there, he found he'd lost all his nerve.

"'Course," Gene muttered, his breath warm against Butch's cheek. "Haven't you?"

Butch closed his eyes, reminded himself to exhale. "No," he admitted, toying with Gene's zipper to occupy his restless hands. He wanted to say that he'd come close, that he and Freddie had this agreement during the rebellion. Once or twice a week, they'd snuck into the reactor room and taken what comfort they could find from one another. Just kissing, no touching below the waist. It was a sorry state of affairs, made worse by everyone else's judgment.

Butch swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He'd made his choice when old man Almodovar closed the Vault, chose to leave good ol' 101 behind and take his chances in the Wasteland. He begged and pleaded, but Freddie was either too smart or too cowardly to leave when he had a relatively secure future in the Vault. The conversation had turned into an argument and Butch had left before he'd had a chance to apologize.

Gene pulled away. "Are you alright?" he asked, sounding halfway panicked.

In answer, Butch reached out and took hold of Gene's collar, pulling him into an inelegant kiss. They clacked teeth and knocked foreheads and Gene came away with a bloodied lip. Grunting in alarm, Butch rolled off Gene and flattened himself against the wall, trying and failing to hide his chagrin.

"Sorry," he mumbled, fumbling for a handkerchief.

"S'alright," Gene said weakly. Even in the dark, the blood was visible, vivid red against Gene's dark skin and bare chest. The handkerchief, pressed ineffectually to his split lip, was already soaked through, stained red.

Butch swooned and had to put his head between his knees to keep himself from fainting.

"Hey." Gene reached out and awkwardly patted Butch's shoulder. "Facial cuts bleed real bad. It's fine. I'm fine."

Butch turned his head and looked up through his lashes. Gene loomed over him, blood-soaked and sympathetic, still pressing Butch's handkerchief to his split lip. He extended his other hand, intending to placate or reassure, Butch wasn't sure. Something in his expression made Gene falter, made the proffered hand drop to the mattress.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Gene asked softly. "I don't want to pressure you into anything or anything."

Butch let his head fall back between his knees to save himself the trouble of answering. He'd been fantasizing about Gene for weeks, but now that he had him, he wasn't sure what he wanted. It had been the same with Freddie: raw, aching lust that dissolved on contact. It was easier with girls, he knew what to expect, what to do with his hands, his mouth, his dick. With boys, it was all uncertain.

Plainly, Gene knew what to do. He'd said as much in the past few weeks, alluding to ex-lovers and past encounters. Butch had pieced together a rough narrative based on what he could get Gene to admit to while they were both drunk, and he couldn't decide if he was jealous or aroused or repulsed or what.

Gene had lost his virginity to some washed-up retired raider fuck. He'd done a favor for one of the security guards in Rivet City, and they'd hooked up afterwards. He'd fucked one of those wandering merchants _and_ his bodyguard, both of them at the same time.

But no matter how drunk he got, Gene refused to yield any more information. No names, dates, or details, because "a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." Butch was left to stew, caught between envy and revulsion and deep-seated inadequacy and self-loathing. He wanted Gene, but he was terrified to let himself have him.

A hand landed on his shoulder; he shrugged it away.

"I need air," he grunted. He climbed out of bed, careful to avoid contact with Gene, and padded barefoot out the door and down the stairs, past the chemistry set and the robot on stand-by. His jacket was hanging on a nail by the door, and he put it on over his bare chest. Still barefoot, he opened the tin door and stepped out onto the walkway.

Deep in thought, he leaned over the railing and lit a cigarette. It was brighter outside, with the stars and the lights on in windows. The neon outside the brass lantern illuminated the crater and the deactivated bomb within, casting strange, yellow shadows. The night was still and quiet, no preacher of Atom or foot traffic on the walkways below him, no humid breeze lifting his hair and rustling his jacket.

When the cigarette had burned down to the filter, he ground it out against the railing and let it fall to the ground far below. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. The universe was unlikely to present him with a sign regarding his current crisis of sexuality; it had bigger and better things to concern itself with.

In the end, he wandered over to Moriarty's and bought himself a half-hour with Nova. She was gentle, attentive, and female, but he was still making himself sick over Gene and he didn't enjoy it. He couldn't get himself up, so she took him, flaccid, into her mouth, but it didn't help. Nothing did, and he left a half-hour later, shame-faced and sore and more confused than ever.

Gene was still awake when he got home, awake and drinking in the kitchen. He offered a Butch a glass of scotch, and he accepted wordlessly. They went back to bed with a lot left unsaid between them.


End file.
